


Of Puppies, Wolves, and Kittens

by SaraDobieBauer



Category: Actor RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Call me by your name, First Kiss, Lust at First Sight, M/M, Mutual Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Seduction, Sex, Timmy is Enthusiastic, Timothee Chalamet - Freeform, Tom Hardy - Freeform, Tom is hungry, unexpected pairing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-16 06:00:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18088766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaraDobieBauer/pseuds/SaraDobieBauer
Summary: Tom Hardy hates fancy Hollywood parties, but the arrival of current industry It Boy Timothee Chalamet makes things a lot more interesting. After all, Tom loves dogs, and Timmy sort of reminds him of a playful puppy in need of a nice, warm bed.





	Of Puppies, Wolves, and Kittens

**Author's Note:**

> K requested this unexpected pairing, so this is a gift to her—one of my dedicated, much appreciated readers. Love you, K!!
> 
> Now, there is some suspension of disbelief here, considering Tom Hardy is actually married with two kids. He’s single in this story. Also shocking to me: Timmy is actually taller than Tom, even though Tom seems like a freaking giant.
> 
> Oh, and yeah, I know Tom and Timothee BOTH speak French, but I couldn’t find a place to fit it in. (OMG that wasn’t a euphemism.) 
> 
> Annnnnnnnd, click [HERE](http://sheisraging.tumblr.com/post/182147803334/just-gonna-put-this-out-there-he-looks-like-a/) to see the Timmy “eye-fuck.” It’s definitely A Real Thing.

Tom Hardy hated fancy Hollywood parties: the posturing, fake smiles, and worst of all, expensive attire. He tugged at the starched collar of his dress shirt and tried not to glower.

His agent—who he trusted with his very life—insisted Tom start making more of an effort. After _Venom_ flopped, Tom needed to get back into the limelight as a prospective hire. It wasn’t like he had trouble getting gigs, but his agent wanted gigs that won awards, not that Tom gave two shites about any of that. Frankly, he detested award shows even more than fancy Hollywood parties.

He stood in the center of some big ballroom and sipped his soda water with lemon. He very rarely thought about alcohol anymore, not since getting sober, but in moments like that … oh, it was tempting. At least booze would take the edge off, make it easier to smile; although booze would also make it easier to fight.

He’d begged Ben to come with, knew his old friend was in California for the week, but nope, he had other obligations. They’d meet for breakfast in the morning, but first, Tom had to survive the endless spouting of bullshit from the mouths of producers and their too-young wives. 

He sighed and thought about sneaking out for a smoke just as someone tapped his shoulder. He glanced back at a young man he damn well recognized but never expected to be his height. He’d looked so small in that film …

“Elio.” The word was out of Tom’s mouth before he even had time to think. “Christ, mate.” He put his hand on the kid’s shoulder and squeezed. Tom’s inner fanboy rarely made an appearance, but this guy … shit, what was his actual name? Something French. “Jesus, man, you’re fucking brilliant! Romantic Italian summer, yeah?”

The kid’s dark eyes bugged out of his head as Tom’s hand dropped away. His mouth opened on a huge, “Wow,” and he looked down at the perfectly polished floor. “Um, I … um, just came over to tell you that, like, your role in _Bronson_ changed my life. I loved the whole production and how you …” He kept talking, his voice somehow both stuttering and soothing at the same time.

Not only was Tom an outstanding actor, but he’d also learned long ago how to school his features to look like he was listening. And he was listening—sort of. The guy went on and on, praising all Tom’s accomplishments, unaware that Tom was studying him.

He looked older than he had in that film, that _Call Me By Your Name_. Tom wasn’t sure how long ago it’d been filmed, but …

Timothee. That was his name. Timothee Chalamet—Timmy or Tim in the few interviews Tom had seen.

Any traces of baby fat in Timmy’s cheeks was gone, his face chiseled and yet still somehow delicate. His hair was longer now, and he looked completely at home in a black suit coat over a green shirt, tiny gold chain around his neck.

Timmy was unfairly attractive really, and Tom had thought so since seeing him play accidentally sensual Elio. He’d watched that movie a dozen times, but nothing compared to the reality of this new It Boy—Hollywood’s sweetheart. He was breathtaking in person with vibrant eyes and pink lips. Tom wanted to gobble him up. 

Somehow, Timmy was still talking about Tom’s epic level of awesome, now mentioning _Legend_ and _Taboo_ and _Peaky Blinders_ , of course. Tom cut him off: “You’re like a puppy that needs scratching, ain’t ya?”

Timmy stopped talking abruptly, his mouth wide. Then, he laughed—a flash of white teeth.

A tall black guy in a navy blue suit sidled up next to them and said, “Leave the man alone, Timothee,” and smiled politely at Tom before trying to pull Timmy away.

Tom’s hand darted forward, fingers wrapping around Timmy’s wrist: tiny and covered in slim chain bracelets. “You’re not leaving, are you?”

Timmy looked down at where Tom’s fingers easily held him captive, licked his bottom lip, and looked back up from beneath a thick fringe of eyelashes. “No.”

“Good,” Tom said and let go.

The good-looking black bloke dragged Timmy to the bar, although Timmy did glance back once. Was he checking to see if Tom watched? Oh, thank Christ, things just got interesting.

Tom loved dogs. He loved dogs more than people—except maybe Ben and Leo—and this kid reminded him so much of an innocent pup in need of a good home. Or a good bed.

Soon accosted by an up-and-coming director he’d met once before, Tom lost sight of Timmy for a little while. During breaks in the conversation, his eyes would seek out the young man, searching the room for that dark hair and pale skin. He always found him in the vicinity. Once, Tom even caught him looking back, although Timmy looked away with haste.

_Caught ya, sweet thing._

An annoying guy in glasses started asking about Wolverine, how Hugh Jackman had said something about wanting Tom to take his place in the role. Again, Tom did the thing where he looked like he was paying attention. He wasn’t. He sought out dark green eyes … and found them easily this time because, this time, Timmy stared back and didn’t look away.

In fact, Tom believed the expression was “eye-fuck.” Tom was being eye-fucked.

Timmy, seemingly sweet and innocent, flashed Tom the most decadent, dirty stare of his life—a stare that shouted, “Come and taste, old man.” Now, Tom Hardy being Tom Hardy had been appraised and seduced by both genders on countless occasions over the course of his career. They were all amateurs compared to this … this … _kid_ , although Tom shouldn’t have been surprised, not after Elio.

He muttered a quiet, “Fuck me,” before stroking his short beard and rudely excusing himself in the middle of a conversation. He shouldered past people to get to Timmy and, once he did, again grabbed that so-small wrist and tugged.

Timmy didn’t put up a fight as Tom navigated through the crowded party and into a back hallway. There, Tom opened the door to a huge coat closet, filled to the brim with trench coats and fur. He pulled Timmy inside and closed the door behind them before grabbing Timmy behind the thighs and tossing him straight up.

Timmy’s legs wrapped around Tom’s waist as he shoved him against the wall. He grabbed for Tom’s shoulders to steady himself, breath already ragged.

Tom chuckled against the side of his throat, wondering over how someone so tall could weigh so little. “You’re not a puppy, are ya? Nah, you’re a wolf.” He sucked the side of Timmy’s neck, and Timmy chuckled. 

“People don’t usually … notice,” he huffed before Tom went in for a hot, hungry kiss. Timmy groaned into his mouth, pulling and pushing on Tom’s suit coat as if he wanted him closer but, at the same time, wanted him naked. 

Timmy’s mouth was soft and tasted like gin. Tom ran his hands up the outsides of his thighs and cupped his ass before grinding against him, pushing him even harder into the wall. Timmy didn’t seem to mind the roughness, not if his desperate whimpers were anything to go by. 

Tom bit Timmy’s earlobe. “Want me to break you in two?” 

Timmy nodded, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Come home with me,” he growled. 

Laughter was unexpected, but that was what happened: Timmy laughed.

Tom leaned back and felt his face melt into a frown. “Somethin’ funny?”

“Well. Sort of!” Timmy grabbed Tom’s suit coat collar and tugged him closer. “You’re Tom Fucking Hardy, man! I was fanboying all over you an hour ago, and now, your dick is pressed against my ass.” He outright giggled. “This is so surreal.”

“You started it.”

He pressed his lips together as his forehead wrinkled. “What? When?”

Tom rubbed his nose across Timmy’s cheekbone and whispered, “Elio …” 

Timmy hummed, fingers gripping the back of Tom’s neck.

Like a huge cat, Tom continued rubbing his beard against the side of Timmy’s face. “I think you seduced half the goddamn world with that role.”

“Fuck, take me home.”

“Ask nicely, Mr. Chalamet,” Tom whispered.

“Please, take me home, _Tom Hardy_.” Timmy snorted, which made Tom laugh before artfully throwing Timmy even higher into the air and over his shoulder.

*** 

They had to leave in separate cars because … oh, decorum and shit. Or whatever. Just Hollywood enforcing the usual rules for an action star actor known for his tough characters, tattoos, and bulging muscles.

Tom had misspoken earlier; he didn’t have a “home” per se. He had a very nice hotel room, though, which was where he waited—waited for Timmy. He would have to thank his agent later, because Tom had a feeling he was about to get some of the sweetest ass of his life.

A quiet knock preceded Timmy’s arrival. As soon as Tom opened the door, a bunch of lanky youth flew in his arms, and teeth bit into his bottom lip. Again, Tom picked Timmy up. He liked how strong it made him feel, tossing this kid around. He avoided his luggage and a discarded pair of tennis shoes before crushing Timmy below him on the bed.

Their kisses in the closet had been messy, hungry, but they were goddamn nuclear now. Tom tongued into Timmy’s mouth as Timmy shoved at his suit coat. Free of the coat, Tom pulled back long enough to unbutton part of his shirt and rip the stupid thing over his head. Timmy’s nails scraped immediately down his tattooed chest. 

Tom gasped and pinned Timmy’s wrists above his head. “Easy, kitten.” 

“Kitten?” He stuck his tongue between his teeth and bit down. “Puppy. Wolf. Now, kitten. Which is it?”

“Not sure yet.” He nibbled the sharp edge of Timmy’s jaw, loving how his skin was already turning red from beard burn. “Although the eye-fuck you gave me earlier was deadly. Careful how you wield that thing.” 

Timmy fought against the hold Tom had on his wrists, ultimately growling in frustration. “It always gets me what I want.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet, you filthy minx. You ever been fucked by an Englishman before?”

Timmy grinned and waggled his eyebrows. “You ever fucked a New Yorker before?”

“Oh, game on.”

Twenty minutes later, and Tom still wasn’t sure how they’d gotten _there_ —how he’d ended up on his back with Timmy riding his dick. Tom wasn’t the sort to be passive in bed. As previously discovered, he liked throwing Timmy around. That was Tom’s norm: being the dominant animal in bed, leaving finger-shaped bruises and love bites while flipping his partners around, changing position mid-thrust. Not … this.

Not that he was complaining.

“Jeeeeeezus, you’re tight,” he said while kneading Timmy's thighs.

Timmy’s eyes squeezed shut as he leaned up on his knees and back down, straddling Tom’s hips. “Well, you’re huge, so …” He reached up and gripped the headboard before doing something just ridiculous with his hips. 

Tom groaned as he saw stars. “My God, where did you learn to fuck?” 

Timmy didn’t answer, maybe didn’t even hear, so blissed out in Tom’s lap. Tom let him take charge—again, out of his normal character—but Timmy seemed quite content being the boss. What a strange conundrum, this kid: stuttering and sweet in public but also an adept fuck boy in bed. He did that thing again with his hips, and Tom momentarily worried he might go blind.

Alternating between a slow grind and rapid thrusts, Tom wasn’t sure how long they went, but it felt like hours, days.

When Timmy said, “Touch me,” Tom did as commanded. He wrapped his fist around his lover’s dick, and Timmy came moments later with his fingertips digging into Tom’s pecs. 

He was practically a rag doll when Tom flipped them both over and finished with a roar of pleasure three seconds later. 

Even though the room was non-smoking, they shared a cigarette (a very Tom Hardy thing to do), Timmy naked and wrapped in a blanket and Tom just … naked. He loved being naked. It was his natural state.

“You do this often, huh?” he asked. “Randomly fuck famous men you meet at parties?” 

Timmy exhaled smoke and handed the cigarette back. “I don’t kiss and tell.” 

“Good, since I’m straight.” 

Timmy yawned. “Same.”

They shared a half-hysterical chuckle before calming down. 

Tom felt his eyes getting heavy—but felt he had to come clean. He liked Timmy, not just the way he fucked but his entire vibe. Puppy, wolf, or kitten: he was all of those things and more, a chameleon in life and on screen. “You know, I think I’ve seen _Call Me By Your Name_ a dozen times.” 

Timmy’s eyebrows drew together. “Why?”

He sighed and rested an arm behind his head before handing the smoke back. “There’s something so pure about it. There’s no bad guy, not really. Life is the bad guy—or growing up, I guess. Plus, I like looking at your tiny ass.”

Timmy swatted at him, but Tom just batted his hands away. 

“You were brilliant, mate, really. And can I say somethin’ that’ll make me sound old?” 

“You _are_ old.”

Tom pointed. “Careful, or I’ll give a spanking.” 

“I might let you.” Timmy winked.

“Christ.” He shook his head. 

Timmy nudged his knee from where he sat, Indian style, on the bed. “What did you want to say?”

“I wanted to say … it all doesn’t matter—the parties, awards.” He leaned up on his elbow. “It’s all just bullshit. It’s about the art, the pleasure of creatin.’ You can’t be an actor because you want other people’s approval. You do it for you, because you love it. Don’t define yourself based on bloody expectations. You hear me?” 

Timmy stared at him in silence for a moment before nodding.

Tom reached out and ruffled Timmy’s hair before stealing the cigarette back. “I like you. I don’t like most people.”

“Thanks?” Timmy said.

“You’re a better actor than me. You know that?” 

Timmy sounded like he choked on his own spit before Tom returned the cigarette. “What? No. That’s not even … No, dude.”

Tom smiled. “There you go. Stay humble. I’m having breakfast with Benedict Cumberbatch tomorrow. You wanna go?”

Now, Timmy choked on smoke. He kept choking as Tom smacked him on the back, laughing at this newbie kid with no clue he had the world at his feet.


End file.
